


Graveyard Shift

by DarkShadeless



Series: Law & Order: Star Wars [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Homophobic Language, Theron getting into trouble, XD, Xenophobia, Yon being extra, also as usual, and I love it, apart from maybe Theron, as usual, bad italian (probably), but not bloody, cursing, for mob movies, i think, nobody is nice here, on screen murder, one story at a time, taking on the challenge of writing the most cliche mafia AU of SWTOR I can manage, think godfather, warnings hm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-16 04:20:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19310494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkShadeless/pseuds/DarkShadeless
Summary: Yon hates doing this kind of favor. For some reason they rarely end well.





	Graveyard Shift

**Author's Note:**

> I can't even tell you how much of a kick this AU gives me.

 

 

_I hate doing this kind of favours._

With that cheerful thought at the back of his mind Yon offers his ‘host’ a handshake and his most professional smile. Mr. Demirdjian returns both with a sneer. “Finally. You’re late.”

_Lovely._

Favours in general are all well and good, his bread and butter, but Yon tends to take a dim view of the kind that has him trekking to abandoned warehouses on the wrong side of the witching hour without even a warning. For some reason they rarely end well.

_Now whyever would that be?_

Nothing for it. When Aunt Leli calls you follow if you know what’s good for you, barring extenuating circumstances et cetera, et cetera, especially when it’s this urgent. The whole mess with the Armenians is sticky enough already. New-age upstarts, you give them a finger they want your hand, your arm and your palle too. No class.

That doesn’t mean civilized people have to stoop to their level. So here he is, in the middle of the night, for a favour owed because these figli delle puttane have managed to get themselves into some sort of trouble.

What they expect him to do about that is a whole other story but Yon shall see what he can manage. It’s not like he has another choice.

Mr. Demirdjian, his client as of half an hour ago, waves him past his bodyguards impatiently. They’re both a towering 6.5, obviously armed and obviously attempting to be intimidating.

If Yon may reiterate himself: No class. At least Pierce _pretends_ to be a gentleman. Most of the time, anyway.

He strides past as if he owns the place, which he technically _does_ seeing as they are past the edge of his famiglia’s territory and doesn’t spare them more than a glance. If they try and kill him they’ll be so far up shit creek they’ll never get down again.

Yon’s _valuable_ , in a more tangible way than most people. It would make him an interesting hostage, he supposes, but a very costly corpse.

The warehouse is barely lit and so damp he steps into a puddle before they’ve even closed the door with that singular finality of slightly rusted steel in a district where no one will hear you scream. _Ugh. I shouldn’t have worn my good shoes._

One of these days he’ll make that sacrifice and leave part of his armor at home in favour of _not ruining it_. Those were goddamned bespoke.

You just can’t get harbour-dirt out of good leather and Christ knows Yon’s housekeeper has tried, bless her diligent soul. The same goes for blood, really, not that he’s one of those idiots who’ll keep evidence lying around in his closet.

Which is why Yon’s mood sinks past what he expected to be the bottom of the barrel for the night when he comes face to face with the trouble their dear Armenian friends have gotten themselves in and realizes: That puddle? Was probably both.

‘Trouble’ has a shock of brown hair and is chained to a heating pipe, of all clichés. He’s been beaten up so badly he’s hanging listlessly, his whole weight on his wrists.

No body that still has some fight in it sags like that. Yon should know. He has played this scenario out on both ends of the equation.

His façade doesn’t so much as crinkle as he takes in the scene, mind flying through all implications and landing squarely on a conclusion that has him giving his ex-client and his thugs a sideways glance.

Yon’s lip curls almost on its own. “I’m sorry, Mr. Demirdjian but what is the meaning of this?”

“Should be obvious, no? Get to work, pretty boy.”

Ah, yes. The joys of some Neanderthal insisting they need a cleaner without owning up to what it is they have to get rid of. Quite frankly, Yon isn’t this kind of sanitation service. He _can_ be if absolutely necessary but generally he has people for this sort of thing.

A bit more on the nose: He’s not in the habit of letting it come to the point where he _needs_ them. He can’t afford to be.

“Mr. Demirdjian, I’m a _lawyer_.”

The Armenian’s eyes spark dangerously. “You’re whatever I need you to be, faggot. Got a problem?”

Wonderful. They’re at name calling already. Yon could say a lot to answer that but in the interest of plausible deniability he holds his damned tongue.

It's for the best and not for the reason he expects it to be. He’s a bit overcautious, he’ll admit, cautious enough to expect the Armenians to be taping the whole thing to catch him guilty by association if he makes one wrong move. As it turns out his paranoia falls short of the sheer extent of their _incompetency_.

Their voices must have jump started Trouble’s survival instincts. The man comes to with a shudder, blinking swollen eyes open as far as he can and the depth of this mess crashes down on Yon with the force of a sledgehammer.

Trouble is a fucking _cop_.

Not any cop either. These morons have dragged him in here with the son of the Chief of Police and the state attorney. Someone like that doesn’t just get lost on some no name op. Forget Armenian tapes, Yon’s in the front row seat of a motherfucking sting. Demirdjian and his lackeys are the least of his problems.  

Or rather, they’ve managed the jump to the top of the list but not in a way they want to.

They called him here. They called _Aunt Leliana_ from a possibly tapped phone, asking for _favours_ to be paid to a criminal, if not a criminal organization.

Thank fuck they got Yon instead of the kind of cleaner they need, because it means she either didn’t get the situation explained or chucked him into the piranha-infested end of the pool to get her own little bit of instant acquittal.

_‘But officer, I thought they needed legal advice! Everybody knows my nephew is so good at that, dear Yonya. Always happy to help out!’_

Wouldn’t be the first time. Either way, it’s sink or swim on his part.

_Che cazzo, they didn’t even blindfold him. How can you be so fucking stupid? Did they bother to check him for bugs?_

Probably not.

“Yes, actually. I do have a problem.” Yon takes a step back, hands half raised in anticipation of the response that has been hovering behind Demirdjian’s disdain from minute one. He knows the type. The insults are a nice dead giveaway, too.

Big, strong man like that won’t think twice about a 'pansy' folding like a piece of tissue paper in the face of some _real_ violence.

They advance on him, herd him back further. Yon’s so close to the heating tubes now they’re making his suit rather uncomfortable. Another write-off, likely as not. This is one expensive night on the town.

Trouble, _Theron Shan_ , is staring at him with the incomprehension of the more than mildly concussed, when he spares him a glance. Something about the situation must resonate with the officer. He drags enough of his wits together to mumble what sounds suspiciously like, “Sh’d get out of here. Don’t- don’t-“

Cute. Yon doesn’t need anyone’s protection, or advice. He’s right where he wants to be.

But he has a role to play, too. “I can’t, in good conscience-“

It’s picture perfect.

Demirdjian steps into the small stripe of light that falls through the vents above, disgust warring with the delight of a rabid dog on the trail of a dove. There’s the crack of breaking glass, a sharp whistle and his head snaps back. Tweedledee and Tweedledumber freeze.

They’re too late. They go the same way before he’s even on the ground.

Yon presses himself against the scalding, bloodied metal at his back and stifles a gasp in his hands. Overkill, unless they’re actually live, but you never know. Shan might remember this shit.

The Armenians are going to have a fit.

They really should have known better. The moment these geniuses involved Yon’s _family_ in a sinking ship of an operation, they were done for. What a mess. Yon’s not this kind of sanitation service either.

He can be, though. If he has to.

 

* * *

 

  

“Okay, let me go over that one more time: You got a call by your aunt, asking you to go out to the docks for legal consultation. In the middle of the night. You didn’t find that odd?”

Detective Dorne manages the balancing act of sounding like she’s trying to console a shocked witness and like she thinks he’s full of shit at the same time. Yon almost wants to applaud.

“Of course it was a bit odd! But my family has a lot of acquaintances. Some of them keep strange hours. Hotel industry, transport agencies, things like that. Our interests are… they’re diverse.” He lets his eyes fall to where he has curled his hands in his lap. They’re shaking slightly and Yon thanks all saints he can remember (and who would appreciate what he is doing, which are considerably less) for adrenalin crash. It’s the details that _sell_.

“God, I- I’m sorry, I need a moment.”

“Of course, Dr. Scarano. I’ll be right back, shall I? Would you like a cup of water?”

“Oh, no thank you.” They’re getting his DNA and fingerprints over his dead fucking body. Or at the very least, not that easily.

It’s not that much longer before he can finally beg off from the interrogation veiled as a witness statement. They know he’s selling them pups by the litter, or at least suspect, but they’ve got no proof. He’s telling the absolute truth and nothing but the truth, after all, with a few minor embellishments.

The shooting was in no conceivable way connected to him. In a few days they’ll find out the gun used for the assassination has been flagged in a gang war a few years ago. Open and closed, as they say.

They should be thanking him, really. If Yon hadn’t turned up to have his night ruined by three dead _idiotas_ , who knows how many pieces they would have found their prodigal officer in? Say what you will about the Armenians, they aren’t known for being squeamish.

But neither are the Scarani, even if Yon personally does hate to ruin a good suit. Their lodgers would do well to remember that. A reminder might not hurt.

Maybe tonight wasn’t a total loss. They don't even have enough to hold him for questioning.

Yon packs away a smile and not a moment too soon. A familiar face is moving to intercept, expression like a thundercloud intent on a whole week of bad weather. The man steps into his space without an ounce of hesitation. “You son of a bitch, I have no idea how you did it but I _will_ find out, I swear.”

“Officer Jorgan. Lovely to see you. Much as I’d love to chat…” He trails off because it’s not like the guy is listening anyways. He’s quivering with rage. Better not to provoke him further, Yon’s not in the mood for a throw down.

High on emotion Jorgan crowds him even more. “One of these days someone will catch you out in a dark alley and you’ll get exactly what you deserve, Scarano.”

“Are you threatening me, officer?” Close as they are, Yon doesn’t even have to pretend. He can make his voice soft and sweet, just to watch the copper’s blood pressure rise. Okay, maybe he’s in the mood after all. “Because I’d say there’s room for at least one more black mark on your record. What do you think?”

And he might get it too. Yon won’t mind a bruise or two if it gets Jorgan kicked to the curb. The bastardo is one reprimand short of being demoted all the way to beat cop in Vice and he might have a temper but he’s a bloodhound when he’s on a case. Inconvenient, that. Sadly, his colleagues know it too.

“Oy, Aric! Get a grip! You want the captain on your arse again?”

Oh well. There’s always next time.

 

Quinn is already waiting for him at the front desk, impeccable from his coifed hair to his well-shined boots, with an umbrella in the crook of his elbow. “Malavai. A sight for sore eyes.”

“Good evening, sir. I’ve taken the liberty of bringing the car around.”

"How thoughtful of you."

Together they stroll past the policemen and women on duty so late it’s early, out into a mild drizzle. Quinn opens the umbrella and Yon rewards him with a sly little smile.

It never fails to bring a touch of colour to his cheeks, which is half the fun right there.

“Your timing is flawless, as always.”

“Thank you, sir. I aim to please.”

 

 


End file.
